Learn To Be Lonely
by chimere
Summary: A story from a lost world - a retelling of what happened between leaving the dungeon and the rose and the ring at the tombstone.


Disclaimer: the story of the Phantom of the Opera has inspired many. I bow to Gaston Leroux, the author of the original book, to Andrew Lloyd Webber, the creator of the brilliant musical, and to Joel Schumacher, the director of the 2004 film. Since this story is based on that film, everything belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber and Joel Schumacher, I'm just borrowing some of it. Not making any money. Don't sue.

* * *

**Learn To Be Lonely**

_By chim__è__re_

**_The Phantom_**

It was in his mind to let himself be caught. For a quick death - for what did he have to live for now? - and for punishment as well. For he had committed sins, the monster that he was, she had shown it to him and he recognised it now.

In the end, he still fled. Cowardice, he mocked himself, never having hated himself more and still unable to put an end to his miserable existence.

He had prepared against a day when he might be forced to leave the Opera House. The passage behind the mirror led into a labyrinth. He grabbed the torch stored in a sconce near the entrance and lit it. He took the right turns automatically, almost blindly, striding quickly and willing himself not to think. The final tunnel he chose soon came to a seeming dead end. He pushed a small protuberance on the wall to his right that none but knowing fingers could find and a secret door slid open. He slipped through more slowly than he knew was wise and the closing stone door scraped his shoulder.

The new passage was narrow and straight. In a niche nearby he found everything he needed. Boots, a cloak, gloves, a sword, a lasso, a purse full of coins and credits of the Bank of France. And a mask. This one was made of black cloth and covered his whole face. He gripped it in his hands for a few moments before putting it on, hating it with every fibre of his being, wanting to tear it into pieces and yet daring not. He didn't bother with the wig, the hood of the cloak would cover his hair and the ugly bald spot on his head.

He strode down the passage and passed another hidden door into the stables. He saddled the finest black horse and, rather than gallop off and draw attention and pursuit, led the animal out, pretending to be a servant fetching it for his lord. He fooled the idiot policemen standing guard at the stable gate and, once safely behind a corner, mounted and rode off slowly.

Black as the meanest ghost, the Phantom of the Opera left Paris.

***

He rode and still managed not to think. He drove himself and his horse to exhaustion, galloping all through the night. He was actually not much of a horseman - the gypsies had been more interested in showing him for money than in teaching him to ride -, and he was glad of his lack of experience. With all his concentration bent on keeping himself in the saddle, he managed not to think.

He rode westwards, because that had been the direction of the street he had taken in Paris and he had no purpose or destination beyond riding straight and far away.

When the pale winter dawn broke, he finally allowed the horse to slow to a walk and made a brief stop at a small village where he purchased a bag of oats and a warm blanket for the animal, but no food for himself - he didn't think he could stomach it. He didn't even notice whether the inn-keeper who sold him what he required stared at his hooded and masked face or not. He cared not a whit that his ominous-looking figure would probably be remembered and easily tracked.

He rode into the woods surrounding the village and dismounted when he deemed he was far enough from any human habitation. He unsaddled the horse, covered it with the blanket, tied the reins to a tree and the bag of oats to the stallions head. He then walked some distance from the animal enjoying his well-earned meal and rest, sat down at the base of a huge tree trunk and remained there, closing his eyes to shut out the brightening light of day.

***

He travelled steadily westwards, keeping to the countryside and the smallest roads. He established a routine of moving only at night, buying provisions from villages he came across at dawn when few people were about, and hiding in the woods during the day. By some miracle the police who were undoubtedly after him didn't find him.

He grew haggard on his journey, unwashed, unshaven and much thinner. He ate very little, mostly because he didn't remember hunger. The winter weather was cold, but accustomed as he was to his cool damp dungeons, he didn't fall ill.

He didn't really sleep at daytime, but slumbered in a state of half-awareness, waking dreams dancing behind the eyelids that he kept closed only to hide from the cold, unfamiliar, unforgiving light. The night was gentler, reminding him of the safe everlasting darkness in his former home. At night he sometimes even dared to take off his mask as he rode, to savour the cool air on his face.

There were times when he spent hours staring at his sword or the lasso and a sturdy tree branch. It would be a fitting fate for him to hang like Buquet. But in the end he didn't do it. He found it a bitter mockery that a creature such as he should still possess a will to live.

***

If only not for the daylight, he would have grown to like the woods. The forest creatures did not shun him as humans did. And he heard little sounds - the creaking of branches in the wind, the shuffling of small animals in the dry leaves, the gurgle of water in the stream -, sounds that were strangely soothing. He began to understand why nature inspired so many composers.

After a week of silent wandering he caught himself humming sad, broken tunes. The first few times he stopped himself angrily, but then let it be. He understood soon how foolish he had been to cry "It's over now, the music of the night". Music could never be over for him. Perhaps it would no longer be the music of the night, perhaps this demon of darkness that he was would have to learn to make the music of the wind, the trees, the grass, the wilderness. But there would be music, for as long as he lived. And the source of inspiration would be the same.

Christine.

She had left and they would never meet again, but the memory would remain, painfully clear and beautiful, to the end of his days. She would be there in his mind, the Angel of Music that he had never truly been for her. He knew that. He would forever write music in her name.

He was what he was - a faceless creature, the music making up all that he was, his whole essence. Christine was incorporated seamlessly in that music, in him, and he could no sooner part himself from her than cut off his own hand.

***

When he saw the sea for the first time in his life, he knew that he had found the new home for his music that could no longer be the music of the night. Vast, powerful, destructive and deceptive, the sea captured his imagination from the moment he set eyes upon it. He walked deserted shores of La Manche and watched it, entranced. The ever-changing shades and mysterious sounds of the water filled his mind and he longed to lose himself in them, to forget all awareness of self, but memories of Christine were stronger, even, than the sea.

One night, there was a storm. He stood on the shore, whipped by wind and water, filled with a dark delight at the wild rage of the sea. At last he had found something in the world to match his own feelings. He closed his eyes - very little could be seen in any event, for the night was dark - and listened to the roar of the waves, soaking it in with the taste of salt on his lips.

And then he tore off his mask and began to sing. He sang to rival the storm, sang the lament that he had been composing in his head on the journey, sang of his love and desire and despair and grief and rage and the terrible longing that threatened to undo him. For all his efforts, his voice was drowned in the storm, but he cared not, for the sea heard him and that was all that mattered. This was not a song for human ears, only the sea could understand him. In the end, his voice was strained and raw like in those last moments in his dungeon, when he had let Christine go.

His voice was lost in the wind and if there were tears, they were lost in the sea spray, and finally he lay down on the wet sand, exhausted, barely retaining consciousness for long enough to put his mask back on. Then he slept.

***

The thought came to him after several days by the sea. He had overheard enough conversations between Christine and Meg Giry in the Opera House to know that as a child, Christine had lived with her father in a house by the sea somewhere in Bretagne. Since she and Raoul had already known each other then (he clenched his fists), it was plausible to assume that that house had been near or on the de Chagny estate.

A sudden desire rose in him to see Christine's childhood home. He didn't care about the fact that this destination would put him among people and at risk of discovery and capture. What else did he have to do, after all?

He chose a dark, windy evening in a fisher village to ask for directions. The old man at the post office he put his question to peered at him more closely than he would have liked, but told him that the estate of Charles, the current _Comte_ de Chagny (presumably Raoul's father) was further west, near Perros-Guirec.

Having reached the border of the de Chagny estate two days later at dawn, he asked closer directions from a woman carrying an armful of brushwood from the forest.

"Umm... I think there is a house right by the sea... A foreigner used to live there with his daughter, Danish or Swedish or whatever they were, yes, I think so. He used to play the violin right pretty, everyone liked to listen to that. But that house's been empty for years now, nobody's using it. And it's not on the Count's estate, no, you'll have to go further west, it's off that way."

"Thank you, _Madame_."

"Why are you wanting to go there anyway, sir? I told you, nobody lives there."

"My business is my own, _Madame_."

"Oh, far be it from me to stick my nose into noble folk's business, but you look to be a stranger here, or rather, you don't look like anyone at all, sir. Why -?"

He chose this moment to spur his horse forward. Too many questions, too many people; he would be lucky to reach Christine's childhood home without the police tracking him down.

***

The house was small, a lovely stone cottage very close to the sea, covered in ivy. It did feel abandoned, the windows were covered with shutters and the little garden looked untended and overgrown even in winter.

He climbed the low stone wall and stepped among the shrubs and little trees and barely visible flowerbeds, slowly walking towards the house. He didn't intend to break an entry, but he did step into the empty porch overlooking the sea. Winter winds had carried dry leaves into the doorway and the corners of the porch. He stood leaning against one of the pillars and watched the restless sea, letting his mind imagine memories that were not his.

This was where little Christine had run and laughed, picking seashells on the shore, playing with flowers in the garden, dancing and singing to the violin her father had played on this very porch.

His face distorted into a grimace under his mask.

This was where Raoul and Christine had chased each other around the garden, the innocent games of children mirroring their future. This was where the boy had called her Little Lotte...

He straightened with an effort, pushing away from the pillar, and descended the steps of the porch, starting to walk back to where he had left his horse. This place, although the childhood home of his love, held no sweetness for him that wasn't mixed with the bitter taste of loss and loneliness.

This house was hers, her dowry. Since both of them had fond memories of this place, in all probability they would return here, waking up the lonely cottage and filling it with life again. They would laugh and sing here just like years before - perhaps they would come here for their honeymoon. And they would live nearby on their estate, the Count and Countess de Chagny, probably visiting this childhood's playground often. One day, their children would run laughing in this garden...

He grabbed the horse's mane and dragged himself up into the saddle. Then he rode away blindly, letting the animal choose whichever path it wished. He had no destination left in the world now.

* * *

**_Christine_**

The Phantom could not have known that several months later, when Christine and Raoul did indeed come to this cottage, she stopped the first time she stepped into the porch, stopped and shivered, looking out to the sea, as if feeling the breath of a strange wind, a presence, a memory... Only when Raoul took her hand and guided her gently towards the door did she follow him and go to rediscover her childhood home.

She could not deny, try as she might, that in these first few months, her thoughts turned often to the Opera House and its strange and terrible master. She strove to suppress these thoughts, deeming them unfitting for a young bride who had hope, love and a future, everything she could ever have wanted. And yet her attempts were only half-hearted. After all, how could she forget the Opera and everything it had taught her, even if her time there had passed, never to return?

Christine feared for the Phantom. She knew better than to believe, or even hope, that he could ever forget her. What kind of a life would he have now? Whither would he turn his despair? She waited fearfully for news of vicious, heartless murders or the discovery of a horrible, half-faced body. She also dreaded the outcome of the police investigation, for even though she knew that justice would condemn the Phantom to death, she could not bear the thought.

At night she often dreamed of music, which was not altogether unusual, but now the music was invariably the strange, dark, terrible and beautiful music of the night. And sometimes she woke with tears on her cheeks.

One thing was certain: she would never return to the Opera House. Her days as a singer were over; she would only be Raoul's wife now. Her voice would sound in their manor-house and in her childhood cottage, but never again on stage.

Raoul understood her. He was the only one who shared her experiences, memories and knowledge, the only one she could talk to. But in fact they did not talk about it, partly because it seemed too strange a tale to discuss anywhere outside the mysterious Opera House, partly because of the promise they had made the Phantom, partly because they understood each other without words. Christine knew that the fact that her thoughts lingered so often on the Phantom disturbed Raoul, and yet he didn't say anything, and she was grateful beyond words. So in a way, the Phantom made their love even stronger.

* * *

**Madame _Giry_**

_Madame_ Giry descended the stairs to the bowels of the Opera House again as soon as she learned that her daughter had gone with the mob to track down the Phantom - no, that she had _led_ them. Forgetting all her fear of the creature she had once protected and who had grown into a monster, she sped down to the deepest vaults in search of the stubborn blond-haired slip of a girl who meant more to her than the entire world. But once in the Phantom's dungeon, her furious reproofs died on her lips as Meg handed her the white half-mask.

She looked around then, sad and curious and marvelling all at once, for the Phantom's domain was impressive. She walked about, stepping into the bedroom niche, where her eyes lingered on the music-box, the much refined version of the toy she had seen in the boy's hands the night she had brought him to the Opera House, but she dared not touch it. She gazed at the broken mirrors for a long time, watching her own fragmented reflection look sadly back. _Where will you go now? What will you do? This was the only place for you. What will you do out in the world, if the world will not have you? _

"Where's he gone?" - "Where's the murderer hidden himself?" - "Ran to some dark corner, the rat!"

"You won't find him," _Madame_ Giry muttered, leafing through the musical notations on the organ. The works of a genius, scattered, discarded, trampled on... She gathered what she could find and took them with her. Silently she climbed back up with Meg, holding her hand all the while just as a precaution. Her daughter knew better than to try to ask or discuss anything.

Late that night, _Madame_ Giry sat in her chamber and read every one of the musical notations, humming the tunes. It had been a very long time since her own talent in music had been given a chance to manifest itself, but these works, truly worthy of a genius, wakened that in her. She fingered the small photograph of herself at the age of sixteen - so young - and let her thoughts slide back over the years, something she did not usually allow herself.

Turns of fate had suppressed her talents often in her life. She had never really had a chance to be a ballerina, either. It had been only a few years after the taking of this photograph that she had had the tumultuous affair with a dashing young officer that had ended in grief as he had been killed on duty, leaving her alone and pregnant. Widowed before marriage, almost penniless and unable to work, she had been quite desperate by the time she had finally convinced the young _Monsieur_ Lefèvre to take the former ballerina with a baby daughter back to the Opera as a teacher.

To the hardships that had plagued her life she had also lost the knowledge that she was in fact talented in music. It was a bittersweet surprise to discover it again. Unbidden, a tune started to unwind in her head.

She thought about the Phantom of the Opera and wondered whether she ought not to have saved him all those years ago. But she couldn't help feeling for him, for his loneliness, for the desperation in his voice as he had sung "Lead me, save me from my solitude".

"You cannot be saved from it," she whispered. "You are meant to be alone. Learn... Learn to be lonely, poor boy."

She picked up a sheet of paper and started to mark down the notes. She knew where she would leave it, and hope for it to be found.

* * *

**_The Phantom_**

Somehow, he ended up on a road leading back to Paris. He barely noticed and cared not at all. The horse was taking a path it knew, and its rider simply let himself be carried along, heedless of the dangers of returning among people. If he had been captured now, he would not have lifted a finger in self-defence.

But it had been almost a month since he had left Paris, his trail had gone cold and the pursuit had ceased. And perhaps utter despair is a cloak for those who carry it, not just a weight but a shelter as well, for no one stopped or questioned him, no one even glanced at him twice. Thus he returned to Paris unhindered, and his horse carried him to a certain house on a certain street and stopped in front of it, very clearly indicating that this was home and it had no intention of going any further.

He dismounted, patted the horse's neck and left the animal there, certain that someone who recognised it, perhaps a former owner, would find it there and take care of it. He turned around and began to walk, aimless as before.

But either it was a strange chance, or fate mocked him yet again, or some part of him had had a purpose after all, because in the end he found himself standing in front of the Opera House. He stared at the familiar building, the only home he had ever had. It was evening and in the dusk he was less likely to invite curious glances, so he stood there for a long time.

The Opera House was being reconstructed. Of course, the fire he had started, crashing the chandelier in his rage and desperation... The Opera probably had new managers again, in all likelihood even more vulgar businessmen than the previous ones. And Christine was gone.

He stood motionless in front of his own familiar universe, now bereft of its centre and flame, strangely silent. And slowly he understood that he had no choice, understood that he was meant to come back here. Whether or nor Christine was here, this was the only place where he could live. He was the Phantom of the Opera, that was all he had ever been, and he belonged here.

***

His home had been plundered, all his possessions carried away, except for the ones that had been broken and now littered the floors of the dungeons. Well, no matter. There were other, even better hidden caves under the Opera House, rooms that this mob could not possibly have found.

Most of his furniture he could reclaim from the storage rooms of the Opera where it had probably been carried to serve as background for new productions, instruments he could also bring from upstairs. He could make new dolls, chandeliers and music-boxes - it would give him a way to pass the time.

He would have to be careful with his resources, of course. His life would not be quite as luxurious as before. He could no longer extort a salary from the managers with the threat of accidents - not just because of what Christine had said, but also because he didn't want to see any people ever again. He felt no desire to sit in box five and look at all those faces. He could listen to the music in the secret rooms and tunnels, and that would be enough. He didn't worry overmuch about how he was going to sustain himself - he had plenty of credits left yet, and contacts in the city, men whom he paid enough not to heed his masked face and strange ways and who could get him everything he needed.

He took one last look around the dungeons he would have to abandon now. That was when he saw it. In the niche where he had kept the mannequin in the likeness of Christine - that was gone now, and he was glad of it -, two items lay on the floor. His old white half-mask and a single sheet of paper. He picked both up with trembling hands. The sheet was a musical notation complete with lyrics, a song.

He stared at the handwritten notes, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. Christine? But then he read the lyrics and understood his mistake. Christine would not send him such lines, Christine would never contact him again, no matter how much he would like to pretend otherwise. Her final act of kindness towards him had been giving him her ring which he now carried in his pocket, not daring to look at it again.

No, this song was not a gift from Christine. Only one other person knew him that well. _Madame_ Giry. He read the lyrics once again, humming the tune quietly.

_Child of the wilderness  
Born into emptiness  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn to find your way in darkness_

_Who will be there for you  
Comfort and care for you  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn to be your one companion_

_Never dreamed out in the world  
There are arms to hold you  
You've always known your heart was on its own_

_So laugh in your loneliness  
Child of the wilderness  
Learn to be lonely  
Learn how to love life that is lived alone_

_Learn to be lonely  
Life can be lived life can be loved alone_

And as the song suggested, he laughed, softly and bitterly.

***

His new home might consist of a single cave-like room with fewer chandeliers and less luxurious furniture, but he himself looked almost like the old Phantom, he thought as he studied himself in a mirror, the torture device he had always hated and yet been drawn to. Thinner, yes, but with a fine cape on his shoulders again, clean-shaven, wearing a black wig and the same white mask that _Madame_ Giry had left for him. Almost he could convince himself that the last six months had not happened, that he was still the mysterious Ghost safe in his darkness and his mask, never having been bared before hundreds of people and, so much more importantly, Christine.

She had bared him in many ways, not just his face, exposing his twisted soul to the world and to himself. He had thought that there could be nothing worse than his face. She had shown him that there was - what his face had made him. She had shown him that his loneliness and need and desire were not love. Christine's kiss had been the fiercest, sweetest, most intoxicating joy he had ever felt, and yet also the sharpest pain and sense of loss. As it ended, he had realised that he hadn't expected it, not truly, but the more bitter realisation had been that he had been right not to assume and that this really was something forbidden to him, forever out of his reach. He had poisoned it with his darkness and evil. No matter how great his yearning, he had understood beyond any doubt that love, the human emotion he had had so little experience with and therefore knew so little of, could not be forced. He had discovered a new depth in himself, something that went beyond his desperate desire, and his one act of true love had been letting her go. She had shown him what _Madame_ Giry's gentle lyrics repeated: he was alone and always would be.

With a swirl of his cape, the Phantom turned and went to explore the hidden ways, to listen to the breathing of his Opera.

***

The Opera House was being reborn, music could already be heard amid the noises of construction. One familiar, beautiful, longed-for voice was missing, but otherwise the Opera sounded much as it had before. Steps, shouts, songs, bits of conversation floated through the walls, soothing him. Nothing prepared him for the news suddenly shouted and whispered everywhere, reverberating through the whole building.

Christine Daaé was to marry Raoul, _Vicomte_ de Chagny a week from today, and their carriage would stop at the Opera House on its way from the church, so that her friends could greet and congratulate the newlyweds.

Blind and deaf to everything, the Phantom stumbled back down into his dungeon. He didn't leave it for seven days, torn in indecision. He knew of many windows he could use to spy on this event. A part of him yearned to see Christine more than anything, but a greater part feared the pain it would bring him and also felt like it would be a violation of an unspoken pact between them, never to meet again.

In the end, he remained where he was. He put out all the candles and torches and stood in the darkness, imagining hearing cheers that in reality couldn't possibly reach him.

"Christine," he whispered, and the darkness echoed the name.

Blindly, he took her ring from his pocket - the ring she had put on in front of him, that had made her his bride, if only for a few minutes. He felt it between his fingers, closed his fist tightly around it. He didn't know how long he stood thus before he fell to his knees and began to weep.

Later, he put the ring on a chain to wear it always near his heart.

* * *

**_Christine_**

Christine was happy, happier than she had ever thought she could be. She had never really been able to envision domestic bliss, having never experienced it - her mother had died giving birth to her, and although she and her father had been happy together, even as a child she had seen his grief and the want of a third had been felt.

But her greatest fear was never realised - she and Raoul were not parted. The years they spent together increased their familiarity, but never lessened their love. Six years after their wedding Raoul's father died and he succeeded him as Count de Chagny. The life of Countess was somewhat strange to Christine at first, since she was not used to being one of the nobility, but she got accustomed to it over time.

Their home was ever full of music. Raoul made her a wonderful present for the second anniversary of their marriage, revealing that he had been taking violin lessons in secret. He was not such a virtuoso as her father had been, but now her singing would never lack accompaniment. And after all, it was not such a great loss that they never went to the opera any more. Their children didn't understand it, though.

"Why aren't you coming with us?" demanded Catherine, their eldest and most outspoken. "We should all go together, like families are supposed to do!"

Christophe, quiet as usual, just shuffled his feet moodily.

"Your nanny will take you. You'll have lots of fun. Papa and I just don't like the opera."

"I don't believe you! You're always singing around the house, you _love_ music! You used to _work_ at the opera!"

"Mama, I want you to come with us!" exclaimed Sylvie, their youngest, and promptly burst into tears.

Christine was sorry and ashamed, but she would not break her promise to the Phantom even for her children, and even her daughter's tears could not make her change her mind.

She never forgot the Phantom of the Opera - he retained crystal clarity in her mind, even as other memories grew dimmer. There was no news of him, no leads, no conclusion to the police investigation, and no body. In her heart she knew that he was alive. There was no telling where he might live now, but nevertheless she would not set foot into his domain again.

Her Angel of Music... A ruthless killer, a man who believed he was entitled to anything because of the ugliness that set him outside the society. But for a while, he had been her Angel of Music, and she could not forget that. And she knew that he had loved her, and loved her still, wherever he might be. She had had a glimpse at the depth of his yearning, and even after all these years, it frightened her. Could she blame him for his desire to grasp and hold such a dream? And yet in the end he had let her go, sacrificing his desire - yes, she knew that he had truly loved her.

Sometimes, when she was careless enough to let her mind wander far along that path, her pity for him overwhelmed her, and in spite of her words to him, she wept for his dark fate.

* * *

**_The Phantom_**

The Phantom of the Opera was not seen again in the Opera House and even if there were some rumours about items missing from storage or suchlike, sensible people didn't take this seriously and gradually the mystery faded into legend. The Phantom hid his face and the world never found him again. Sometimes he thought he could feel himself fading, dissolving into the darkness under the Opera House. He was no longer a man, but a mere shadow, a spectre, a memory - finally truly the ghost he had named himself so long ago.

He lived much as he had before, the notable difference being that now he had no young promising protégée to teach. He wasn't sure if it was possible to love a life lived alone, but he had learned, and found that it was possible to accept loneliness. His life acquired the quality of quiet calm that comes with the absence of hope. It would have been mere existence but for two things: music and memory.

He played the organ and the flute and the violin, he sang and he wrote music. Every now and then his works found their way to stage of the Opera Populaire, and he allowed himself a small smile when he heard the audience applaud. These mysterious appearances of pieces of music would have caused rumours, of course, but he took care to deliver them to _Madame_ Giry or, after she had retired, her daughter Meg Giry. These kind ladies, even though they never saw him again, knew who these works belonged to and kept quiet about it, attributing them to various unknown or anonymous composers in front of others.

Memory, his other treasure besides music, did not dim in this dungeon. One of the reasons he felt like a shadow was that he _was_ the ghost of years past, never having stopped living in 1870 while the world moved on around him. Every morning - though sometimes he wondered how and if he could recognise morning in this constant darkness - when he opened his eyes, his first thought was of Christine. _Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned..._ And over the years he did become resigned, the pain dulling to a point where he could almost convince himself that it was no worse than the normal sadness surrounding the past and memory.

* * *

**_Raoul_**

_No wound received in battle could ever compare to this,_ Raoul thought distractedly as he stared at the white tombstone. It had been a month, but that time felt like a decade of grief. His children had already begun to walk slowly back to the car, leaving him to his solitude, the solitude that was merely more poignant here, but always felt - the solitude of a soul missing its better half. All those years she had been by his side - he almost couldn't remember life without her.

His finger stroked the enamel picture of her face and he gave a half-choked sob. He could not bear this, the weight of her absence was too much, it was crushing him. Desperately, his mind sought for something, anything else to think of, even for a moment.

It came to him wholly unbidden. He wondered if the Phantom knew of her death.

_It would appear that you are still alive, for you have not stopped haunting us,_ he thought wryly. How many times over the years had he caught Christine with that look in her eyes? Sometimes the resentment had been almost too bitter to swallow.

But now he found that he could not muster any particular amount of anger for the Phantom, and not an ounce of blame for Christine. How could he ever hold anything against her now? That her thoughts had sometimes lingered on the Phantom was yet another proof of the kindness of her heart. _Jealousy,_ he thought with incredulity. How could he have been jealous of the Phantom, how could he have doubted, even for brief moments, his wife's unwavering devotion to him? He regarded these memories with utter contempt now.

He looked at the image of her face again, remembering times he did not often allow himself to remember. And finally he admitted to himself what he had always known and denied, because it had ever galled him the most about memories of the Phantom.

The old man and widower he now was could finally make that peace with his lifelong rival. _I hope you are luckier than me and have not survived to see this. For I would not wish this grief upon anyone. And I know that you would grieve every bit as much as I. In one thing, if nothing else, you and I are alike - we both loved her. _

* * *

**_The Phantom_**

The great war finally destroyed his Opera, just as it destroyed the whole old world. He did grieve then, as he left the Opera House for a second time. He lived for a while in an abandoned cottage near Paris until he was forced to move again to avoid the war. Amidst these horrors, worse than any that mankind had seen until then, no one seemed to notice an old man in a mask. The end of the war found him by the sea, in Bretagne again. The ocean still held an allure for him and he did not think of leaving until 1919, when it was certain that the war was over, just as all things in the world, even the most terrible and the most beautiful, come to an end.

The Opera House was marred by the war. He read the poster outside with a mixture of incredulity, outrage and grief. It had come to this - they were going to hold an auction, to sell his Opera piece by piece in order to raise a few francs! And the music had grown silent. His mind reasoned that it would sound again, for as long as there are people, there is music, and after the horrors of the war music should be even more sought after. But he couldn't help the tears prickling his eyes as he walked the empty, dusty corridors. The Phantom of the Opera no longer even needed to hide, for there was no one to hide from.

Like an apparition, the figure of a woman was suddenly standing in his way. In her posture he saw sadness not unlike his own. _Another being from the old world lost in the new one, another child of the Opera grieving for its current state,_ he thought, and suddenly recognised Meg Giry. She was startlingly old, and wore a black veil on her hat. She looked neither surprised nor frightened to see him.

What she told him quietly made him forget the sad state of the Opera House, made him forget everything. He swayed and blindly sought the support of a wall, unable to think, unable to speak. Meg Giry stepped closer, concerned, but he turned away, not seeing her, straightening with an effort and starting to walk back, out of the Opera House he was now leaving forever, towards the last place he would ever go to.

***

Christine had been dead for two years. He could still scarcely believe it.

What right did he have to survive his Angel? How could he not have _known_?

He stared at the white marble gravestone. "Christine, Countess de Chagny, beloved wife and mother," read the epitaph. Mother... He tried to imagine her children. For some reason he was sure that she had a son and two daughters. Bright, joyful, with light feet and beautiful singing voices. They would be grown now, of course.

Sixty-three years... So young. Had the war affected her somehow? Or had she been ill?

He couldn't turn his eyes from the small enamel picture depicting her face, a little older than he remembered it, but just as beautiful. He lifted a gloved hand to touch it gently.

He didn't know how much time passed before he finally pulled out her precious gift, took the ring from its chain and tied it to the single red rose he had brought with him. Carefully he placed the rose at the base of the tombstone.

Then he turned and walked away. He didn't know where he was going and it didn't matter. Now the music was truly over, and the days of the Phantom of the Opera with it.

_FIN_


End file.
